The Plastic Age by Percy Marks (e book reader pc .TXT) 📕

“Your clothes! My dear, you look sweet. Take off your cap and dance with me.”

Hugh snatched off his cap, his mind reeling with shame, but he had no time to think. The girl pulled him through the crowd to a clear floor. Almost mechanically, Hugh put his arm around her and began to dance. He could dance, and the girl had sense enough not to talk. She floated in his arm, her slender body close to his. When the music ceased, she clapped her little hands excitedly and told Hugh that he danced “won-der-ful-ly.” After the third encore she led him to a dark corner in the hall.

“You’re sweet, honey,” she said softly. She turned her small, glowing face up to his. “Kiss me,” she commanded.

Dazed, Hugh gathered her into his arms and kissed her little red mouth. She clung to him for a minute and then pushed him gently away.

“Good night, honey,” she whispered.

“Good night.” Hugh’s voice broke huskily. He turned and walked rapidly down the hall, upon the veranda, and down the steps. His classmates were waiting for him. They rushed up to him, demanding that he tell them what had happened.

He told them most of it, especially about the dance; but he neglected to mention the kiss. Shyness overcame any desire that he had to strut. Besides, there was something about that kiss that made it impossible for him to tell anyone, even Carl. When he went to bed that night, he did not think once about the coming football game. Before his eyes floated the girl in the corn-colored frock. He wished he knew her name.⁠ ⁠… Closer and closer she came to him. He could feel her cool arms around his neck. “What a wonderful, wonderful girl! Sweeter than Helen⁠—lots sweeter.⁠ ⁠… She’s like the night⁠—and moonlight.⁠ ⁠… Like moonlight and⁠—” The music of the “Indian Serenade” began to thrill through his mind:

“I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night.⁠ ⁠…

Oh, she’s sweet, sweet⁠—like music and moonlight.⁠ ⁠…” He fell asleep, repeating “music and moonlight” over and over again⁠—“music and moonlight.⁠ ⁠…”

The morning of the “big game” proved ideal, crisp and cold, crystal clear. Indian summer was near its close, but there was still something of its dreamy wonder in the air, and the hills still flamed with glorious autumn foliage. The purples, the mauves, the scarlets, the burnt oranges were a little dimmed, a little less brilliant⁠—the leaves were rustling dryly now⁠—but there was beauty in dying autumn, its splendor slowly fading, as there was in its first startling burst of color.

Classes that Saturday morning were a farce, but they were held; the administration, which the boys damned heartily, insisted upon it. Some of the instructors merely took the roll and dismissed their classes, feeling that honor had been satisfied; but others held their classes through the hour, lecturing the disgusted students on their lack of interest, warning them that examinations weren’t as far off as the millennium.

Hugh felt that he was lucky; he had only one class⁠—it was with Alling in Latin⁠—and it had been promptly dismissed. “When the day comes,” said Alling, “that Latin can compete with football, I’ll⁠—well, I’ll probably get a living wage. You had better go before I get to talking about a living wage. It is one of my favorite topics.” He waved his hand toward the door; the boys roared with delight and rushed out of the room, shoving each other and laughing. They ran out of the building; all of them were too excited to walk.

By half-past one the stands were filled. Most of the girls wore fur coats, as did many of the alumni, but the students sported no such luxuries; nine tenths of them wore “baa-baa coats,” gray jackets lined with sheep’s wool. Except for an occasional banner, usually carried by a girl, and the bright hats of the women, there was little color to the scene. The air was sharp, and the spectators huddled down into their warm coats.

The rival cheering sections, seated on opposite sides of the field, alternated in cheering and singing, each applauding the other’s efforts. The cheering wasn’t very good, and the singing was worse; but there was a great deal of noise, and that was about all that mattered to either side.

A few minutes before two, the Raleigh team ran upon the field. The Raleigh cheering section promptly went mad. When the Sanford team appeared a minute later, the Sanford cheering section tried its best to go madder, the boys whistling and yelling like possessed demons. Wayne Gifford brought them to attention by holding his hands above his head. He called for the usual regular cheer for the team and then for a short cheer for each member of it, starting with the captain, Sherman Walford, and ending with the great halfback, Harry Slade.

Suddenly there was silence. The tossup had been completed; the teams were in position on the field. Slade had finished building a slender pyramid of mud, on which he had balanced the ball. The referee held up his hand. “Are you ready, Sanford?” Walford signaled his readiness. “Are you ready, Raleigh?”

The shrill blast of the referee’s whistle⁠—and the game was on. The first half was a seesaw up and down the field. Near the end of the half Raleigh was within twenty yards of the Sanford line. Shouts of “Score! Score! Score!” went up from the Raleigh rooters, rhythmic, insistent. “Hold ’em! Hold ’em! Fight! Fight! Fight!” the Sanford cheering section pleaded, almost sobbing the words. A forward pass skilfully completed netted Raleigh sixteen yards. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

The timekeeper tooted his little horn; the half was over. For a moment the Sanford boys leaned back exhausted; then they leaped to their feet and yelled madly, while the Raleigh boys leaned back or against each other and swore fervently. Within two minutes the tension had departed. The rival cheering sections alternated in singing songs, applauded each other vigorously, whistled at